


Somewhere in Paris

by elvisqueso



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Coffee Shops, Hannigram Holiday Exchange, M/M, Murder Husbands, Not really an AU but y'know, Post TWOTL, beards n' buns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:05:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvisqueso/pseuds/elvisqueso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee is very important always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grumpygrahams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpygrahams/gifts).



Christmastime in Paris; the City of Lights is dressed in holiday regalia, twinkling silvers and reds and greens.  Snowflakes melt a little on their way to the ground, making the pavement slick and shiny.  All the cafés pull the outside tables in beneath awnings and behind sliding glass doors to keep a good view of the passersby without letting the chill in.  One small corner café — cozy but not cramped — glows into the surrounding air like a hearth.  The interior is inviting; there is an element of escapism here, furniture made heavy and comfortable and the walls decorated like a hunting lodge.  Antlers spiral out from the walls and make a canopy over the patrons.  It feels safe, rather than unsettling.  There is a heavy scent of dry sandalwood and cinnamon, and the coffee price is fluid depending on what is available this season.  On occasion, the barista is known for bouts of eccentric shopping: he finds curiosities in coffee production that either delight or merely intrigue the sensitive palates of the French, who are connoisseurs of coffee as much as they are of cheese and wine.

Today, he has a brew made by a monastery in Wisconsin and sold to raise alms for the poor.  One of the monks there had been raised on a coffee farm, and put his inherited skills into practice in their abbey garden.  The beans, roasted to perfection, are surprisingly sweet and full; the tea, also made by the monks, vary with the season.  Croissants and biscuits are all made with whole grain flour and fresh berries and nuts.  Wines and cheeses from the vendor down the street are often featured in accordance with the _café du jour_.  Behind the bar, the barista scuttles to and fro exchanging platitudes polite and concise with his customers, speaking a quick street Parisian.  His hair, which might have been too long on a less attractive or cleaner-shaven face, is always twisted up off his shoulders.  The illusion of hospitable temperament it gives invites the patrons into comfortable conversations.  Even while they all reveal their stories under his gentle persuasion, they do not leave feeling intruded upon.  Rather, they feel the happy sensation of having a common acquaintance who has no qualms over entertaining so many visitors in his home at once.

The manager is less warm, but a popular curiosity for the patrons.  His clean appearance and obvious beauty drastically contradict his scars and heavy creole dialect.  The ladies murmur amongst themselves when they catch any glimpse of him, enchanted as they are by men with any air of danger or mystery about them.  Some will attempt to engage him as he makes his rare rounds of the tables with invitations and questions.  He will tell them about his dogs, of which there are a surprising sum, but nothing more.  Despite his aloof nature, no-one could ever complain his proficiency in running a café; there is a sharpness in his eyes that betray a shrewdness that is both parts ruthless and considerate toward his peers.

Days grow shorter; the precious few hours of sunlight ebb away like the tides.  Advent is drawing to a close and the time for festivities will be over soon.  Under the hush of gently falling snow, there are secrets waiting.  Come Spring they will slip to the surface and the people will wonder at them and fear them and ask themselves who anybody can trust anymore.  Until then, let them enjoy their antlered sanctuary, and be blissfully ignorant of the monsters who pour them drinks and smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo-boy, well, I planned this to be 3-4 chapters (and ~5,000-7,000 words) long and I'll be updating at least once a week until [grumpygrahams](http://grumpygrahams.tumblr.com/) gets all of their gift.
> 
> Happy holidays to everybody, and a happy New Year, etc. etc. :)


	2. The Two Fridas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality._ — Frida Kahlo, painter

Inspector Claude Beauford has slept about twelve hours total within the last five days.  He hasn’t clipped his fingernails in as long, either, and they’re starting to scrape his palms to itchiness.  The current case has found its way to the daily tabloids and clickbait articles, sowing anxiety among the civilians.  It’s all just one big headache for the Inspector, who eyes the crowd idling at the yellow tape with distain.  _Rubberneckers_ , he thinks, snapping on his gloves and approaching the forensic unit on the other side of an opaque screen.

This is the second one this month.  In August there were three, and then nothing.  Four in the Spring.  The Inspector looks at the scene before him with the weary resignation of the last standing soldier.  There are two bodies this time; he recognizes the arrangement, but he doesn’t quite remember the name of the painting.  This one is more a reference than an exact copy, as some of the others have been.  The question of whether this is due to a lack of time on the killer’s part or for another reason simmers in the back of Beauford’s mind, picking and pecking at him as he processes.

They are two women in dresses — a fine Louis Vuitton evening gown on one, a plain, off-the-rack dress on the other — seated side by side on a park bench.  They are holding hands, and their hearts have been torn out of their chests.  The heart of the finely dressed woman is placed in the other woman’s chest, and she holds a snail shell in one hand.  The arteries are wrapped around the heart owner’s neck.  That one has scissors in her hand, clamping on end of the artery.  The second heart is nowhere to be found.

The women look fairly similar; sisters, perhaps.  The test results will be done within a few hours, so Beauford has time for an expresso before returning to the station to find out.

He picks the corner café with the cozy looking chairs and antler decorations.  The barista brings him the coffee with a hospitable grin.  The state of his face must be telling.

“You must be working hard, _monsieur_.”

“The wicked don’t rest, so neither do I.”  Beauford replies grimly into his cup, “Although I wish they would. They should at least take Christmas off.”

The barista laughs a little and looks sympathetic; he brings some cheese and bread.  “On the house,” he says, busying himself with slicing ham behind the counter.  It’s not a direct invitation to converse, but the invitation is there nonetheless.  Beauford turns his cup in his hands a few times.

“Who’s that one painter…the Mexican woman with a uni-brow?”

The barista looks up at him and blinks once.  Whether it’s a pause to think or disappointment, Beauford isn’t sure.  “Frida Kahlo,” he says.  Beauford writes down the name on a napkin and stuffs it in his pocket.  “Is she something to do with your wicked?”

“Mmn, perhaps.”  He waves the question off and downs his expresso.  “You’ll probably get to read about it in the tabloids tomorrow anyway.”

The barista merely raises his eyebrows and moves on to attend another patron.  Beauford watches him a moment before downing his expresso and patting his pants for his wallet.

-

Tests found the sisters — Marie and Celeste Marais — had no drugs in their systems.  The mortician is certain they were both alive to see their hearts ripped out.  No fingerprints, no fibers or hairs anywhere.  Fingernails had been scrubbed of dirt.  The best lead they have is the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Musée d’Orsay.

Beauford walks a little too swiftly through the clusters of appreciators and school trips, browsing the displays on the walls until he finds the painting he’s looking for.  The _Two Fridas_ , twins of the artist herself sitting side by side, one heart within the other, rife with the symbols of Kahlo’s personalities trapped in dependency, and yet, seemingly at harmony with themselves.  A museum guide gently taps his shoulder to tell him he’s standing too close to the art.

As he steps backward, he notices another couple of visitors, heads somewhat tilted, appraising the piece as they had all the others.  A couple of young girls, babbling quietly.  An old man sitting with his hands rested on his cane.  A clean, middle-aged man with a serious face and sharp blue eyes.  The eyes are so distracting that he almost doesn’t notice the scars on the man’s face.

There is a sudden discomfort in his bones that the man is standing just behind and to the left of his shoulder.  It’s a reflex, he knows, to noticing anything sitting in one’s blind spot.  The man notices him staring and peers quizzically into his face.  Abashed, Beauford takes one last glance at the _Two Fridas_ and walks on, much slower, glancing back occasionally at the man with the scars, and wondering.

-

He decides to speak again with the barista at the corner café.  There’s something knowledgeable about him that Beauford thinks might be a decent sounding-board for his own processes.  He’ll take what he can with the scraps he’s got, and damned be “proper” case work if it gets you nowhere as fast as he’s gotten there.

As he walks in under the antlers and scents of cinnamon and roasted coffee beans he sees the man with the scars from before speaking amicably with some of the patrons.  The ladies lean forward on their elbows, hands coyly rested under their chins as they ask how the dogs are, whether there are any new ones and, oh, how is your Suzanne getting along?  If she has a good litter, might you sell me a pup?

Standing at the counter again, Beauford waits for the man to recognize him; he asks the barista — who is called Yves, as it turns out — for his expresso and a prosciutto sandwich.

He’s sure the scarred-man does, but there is nothing beyond a glance and a nod of acknowledgment as he scurries off towards the back room with a cell phone ringing in his hand.  Beauford releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  Whether it’s in relief or disappointment, he’s unsure.

“Something on your mind, _monsieur_?”  The barista’s face is open and interested; as he places the drink and food down Beauford notices the pencil wedged behind his ear.  The image is reassuringly working class.

“The Mexican artist.”  He says, sipping.  “Was that the manager?  I saw him at the exhibit.”  Yves looks over his shoulder at him — he’s steeping hot tea at the press on the other side of the counter.

“That’s Beau.”  He says.  “He doesn’t look it, but he has an appreciation for that sort of thing.”

“Hm.  He looks more like the finance channel type.”

He laughs loud, and there’s a slightly metallic rasp beneath it that suggests a sparsity of use.  “That he does.  Or the Dog Show channel.  But he is quite cultured.”

“Does he know much about Frida Kahlo?”

“Maybe.  Perhaps you should like ask him?”

“I might.”

There is a pause, and the Inspector suddenly feels as though he’s been pinned like a bug on a canvas by Yves’ stare.  “I _did_ see the papers, like you said.  You must be working on that case about the sisters.”

It was inevitable that he would realize that.  “I am.”

“Should I call our lawyer?”

“No, no.  No need for that.  But perhaps he can give me some insight.  Do you have a room apart from the lobby?”

Yves nods and directs him to a little room in the back with a couple file cabinets and a rather nice desktop computer.  Beauford amuses himself looking at the little knick-knacks on the desk when the manager, Beau, walks in.  It takes a moment to tune his ear to the roughness of Beau’s accent — it reeks of bayou, and Beauford can only hope the feeling doesn’t show on his face.

“Yves says you have some questions about Miss Kahlo.”  When Beau smiles, the scar on his cheek creases and looks like a runaway dimple.  It’s oddly charming.

“Inspector Claude Beauford.  I won’t take up much of your time.”

Beau waves off his concern and takes a seat in one of the two small, leather chairs.  “Beau Livernois.  What would you like to know?”

Beau Livernois is secure in his education and speaks like a lecter at a Mass.  His recitation is mesmerizing, and his eyes go alight as he speaks as though the sharing of knowledge this way is his own keenest pleasure.  He also divulges that, a lifetime ago, his expertise had been in military psychiatry, but that the training curriculum had begun to include criminal behavior analysis following the shooting at Fort Hood.  He recognizes, he says, some specific pathology in the mutilation of the corpses, and he’d be happy to help as a consult if that’s what the investigation needs.  It’s only when Yves pops his head in the room to ask after Beau’s assistance does Beauford realize they’ve been talking for almost an hour.  He hands his business card over with plans to talk more the next morning, and leaves the place with an unchecked spring in his step.

As Inspector Beauford walks out of the little corner café, feeling the spiking rush of progress for the first time in weeks, he fails to see the monsters peering after him from their antlered rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's an hour and a half late but it's up! Here's the painting: [The Two Fridas](http://www.fridakahlo.org/images/paintings/the-two-fridas.jpg)
> 
> Chapter 3 will be up by the New Year.


	3. A Delphinium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It took me a long time to understand the relationship between ideas and between objective facts. But after I clearly understood this relationship, I didn't fool around with other wild ideas. That is one of the main reasons why I just make my scheme as simple as possible."_ — Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, architect.

There is no specific place where the inner palaces of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham join.  Many separate rooms may belong to both or neither of them; it is easy to lose oneself here.  We are unsure whether it is Graham or Lecter who joins us here today, as their inner selves have become so similar.  Perhaps this is both of them, joined as only they can be.  Whichever it is, we follow him down the open aisle of Duomo di Orvieto, and we stop to appreciate the blue and golden fresco above the altar.  He takes a left and now we are in the Farnsworth house of Mies Van der Rohe.  This was an addition of Will Graham’s.  The house is small, if taller than the original; almost like a single room with dividers and windows on all sides.  Our host walks the perimeter, appreciating the view outside.  It’s Spring here, and the trees have blossomed.  The flooding isn’t so bad today; the water’s deep enough only to make the house look as though it is stilted above a pond.

Here, in the compact kitchenette of this glass cage with a view, we could watch the birth of design.  We could see the separate lines increase and form into a shape of immense beauty and horror.  But we can only stay so long; it would be rude, after all, to peer over shoulders and hum at the process.

-

One positive outcome of the _Two Fridas_ murder is the increased patronage of her exhibit.  The lobby is packed with young people, bright eyed in their newness.  They look at the paintings and sketches and find meaning applicable only to themselves, real or imagined.  Monsieur Livernois is already in the Musée cafeteria when Beauford finally fights his way through the crowds.

“I appreciate you meeting me here,” he says, standing to greet, “I find it easier to work in a place like this.”

“Understandable.”  The Inspector looks around at the pressing crowd, conscious of the gruesome pictures in his briefcase.  Beau seems to pick this up right away.

“Don’t worry about them.  Their eyes are on the art.”

“I suppose so.”

Beauford rifles in his briefcase and slides the abridged casefile across the table.  They spend about fifteen minutes in silence as Beau looks through the pages.  He spends most of the time looking at the pictures.

“This is very…exact.”  He says, finally, “They really did their homework.  Where’s the second heart?”

“We don’t know.  Probably taken as a trophy.”

Beau hums, “I’m curious what your killer does with them.  Some like to dip them in resin and preserve them.  Or they have other uses, sometimes ritual.”  He looks up at the ceiling, as though there is a wealth of information there that he, alone, is privy to.  He goes on, slowly, as though picking the words from the air: “Intelligent psychopaths with a streak of sadism in them are very hard to catch.  If you want to catch him, you’ll have to look for more than just physical evidence.”

“How do you mean?”  Beauford hadn’t realized he’d been leaning in.  He pulls himself back and straightens his shirt.

“The nature of a thing in and of itself.  Your ‘wicked’ may be a killer, but he is human.  A human with human needs, human wants, human desires.”  He looks at Beauford as if to gauge whether or not he’d gotten ‘it,’ yet; whatever ‘it’ is.  Seeing no reply forthcoming, he prods: “How do you think he’s choosing them?”

“We aren’t certain.  There’s no commonality between the victims.”

“None whatsoever?”

“At first we were looking at upper-class, bourgeoisie types.”  Beauford says, “but that fell through after the fourth murder: that one was a store clerk.  Low income.”

“I saw.”

“We only know where two of them were taken from, and that was just their apartments.  No signs of a struggle, so the killer knew them, or he’s just very disarming.”  He runs his too-long fingernails through his hair, scraping his scalp as he does so, “We tossed around the idea that he might be a postal worker, or another job that requires door-to-door travel.  Maybe something that would let them inside the victims’ homes.”

“Why was that tabled?”

“Lack of evidence, mostly.  And education.  Few academics do that kind of work.”

Beau takes a strange look at him, but says nothing.  Instead, he stands and walks toward the exhibit, beckoning the inspector to join him.

They make their way through the exhibit slowly, but not painfully so.  They speak only of the art the entire time. 

-

Inspector Beauford’s business apartment is cramped with banker’s boxes and empty food containers.  We see the inspector now, laying on the small couch, picking his overgrown nails.  The inspector has no inner palace, but he has a series of voice memos on his phone which he makes every available moment.  He plays back these memos now, filled with his observations and hunches relayed with precise description and thoroughness.

_“…the sisters’ hands were cleaned and the nails were polished.  The killer wants focus on these hands; the connection is important.  Testing indicated that the polish was a high-quality brand; natural ingredients.  Our killer is particular about his tastes…”_

He skips to the next file.  _“…the coffee was superb.  Heavy and also bittersweet.  South American, perhaps.  The barista is tall, about 180, 185 centimeters.  Grey-blond, bearded.  No visible tattoos.  Small scars on the bridge of his nose, cheek.  Inner wrists have two long scars, possible attempted suicide, however the demeanor doesn’t match up.  Asked him if he knew the name of the painter, Frida Kahlo.  Reaction was interesting.  Indignant, contemptable.  Affronted.  Will have to follow up…”_   Next.  _“…Man at the exhibit also works at the café.  Scars match the description found in the cold file.  No doubt about it, it’s them…”_

Claude Beauford stops the playback and hits record.  As he speaks, his eyes read invisible lines in the air above him.  “Entry for today, December 22nd, 11:47 P.M.  This is Inspector Claude Beauford.  The boys in the forensic unit re-inspected the sisters, as I suggested.  They found pollen in the nasal cavities; both were mildly allergic to delphinium flowers.  Not a flower many go out of their way to get.  Currently running a program to search purchases and orders for delphinium buds or bouquets in all Paris shops.”  A pause to wet his lips.  “Graham and Lecter plan to kill me, but don’t seem to be in a hurry.  Appointment to meet with Will Graham, alias ‘Beau Livernois,’ went well.  He seems to enjoy feeding me hints; it’s obvious what will happen when I ‘catch on.’  Discretion is key, as is caution; if I lose them now, I may never have another chance…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up shorter than I wanted, and taking longer than I expected. It'll take about a week until the next chapter, and I'll probably have to split in in half for pacing reasons! Ay ay ay...but thank you for bearing with me, I'll wrangle this thing yet!
> 
> Here's some interiors of the [Farnsworth House](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/33/8d/ef/338def4a2c4d55325e47f5feea4288b0.jpg) and the [Duomo di Orvieto](http://www.ifilmati.eu/uploads/2/1/1/2/21125084/7222582_orig.jpg).


	4. With Regards to Miss Baker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I wasn't really naked. I simply didn't have any clothes on."_ — Josephine Baker, performer and visionary

It’s Christmas Eve and the City of Lights is beautiful.  We may walk along _Quai de Bercy_ and watch the motorboats skid along, the decorative lights of them leaving trails behind like ribbons.  People are out, _dînent au ville_ with jingling holiday music fading in and out as venue after venue is passed.  Children, fidgeting in their Christmas suits and dresses, chase snowflakes with their tongues.  A couple moves to the side for an army of them, offering sympathetic smiles to the parents who follow at a swift walk carrying presents in bags.

We follow the couple as they continue their walk.  If we are discreet, we may listen to them talking of the architecture, the lights, and the history of Yule and Christ.   We know them as the owners of that little corner café, unassuming and peculiar enough for passing interest and nothing more.  But here, outside the walls of their theatre, they are almost unrecognizable.  Even with the distinctive scars and eyes, one would have to look hard to be sure they are the same people.  Perhaps it is because tonight, while the café is closed and they may wander freely in the city streets and through crowds, they are being themselves and not Yves and Beau:

“I think you threatened to take me to a dive bar from your college days.”

“Did I?  I don’t really suppose it’s there anymore.”

“You realize it’s very hard to imagine you in a ‘dive’ anything.”

“Perhaps as I am now.  You didn’t know me as a youth.”

“I know enough of you to guess.  You must have liked the crowds.”

“Indeed I did.”

“And maybe the drugs.”

“Ah, it really was another time.”

“Sometimes when you’re normal you scare me.”

“Because it’s easier to see me as something abnormal?”

“Because it’s strange to see you as anything but.  Normal is your abnormal.”

“Of course, drugs then were not as potent as they are now.  Columbian Gold would be considered very ‘weak’ these days.”

“ _That_ makes me feel old.”

“We’re not young.”

“But not old.”

“Middle-aged, I think they call it.”

“I don’t know if you can still be middle-aged when you’ve already had your mid-life crisis.”

“Debatable.”

“The classification or the implication that you have had a mid-life crisis?”

“Both.”

There is laughter and the sound of bells from a charity choir and taxis rumbling over the streets.  There are live bands in some of the clubs and restaurants who have learned all their songs over the last two weeks just for this night.  We pass some couples in doorways and on benches whispering sweet limericks of nothing.  Our couple has outgrown those things, but they look at the young couples and smile fondly and keep on.  Youth cannot be reclaimed, and nor should one desire to reclaim it.

We enter a small cabaret hall, the walls draped in green velvet and the waitresses all in candied negligees.  But the sights meant to be seen are the onstage entertainment; a woman in a white dress sings arias beautiful and lilting atop a swing, her pretty ankles hooked together in mock gentility.  The dancers below are not the stark and strict ballet of the grand stages, but they are loose and limber and as in tune to the singer as a snake to his charmer.  There is wine and good food and laughter, burlesque entertainment long forgotten by most in the modern age.  The songs are old and bawdy and terribly catchy.  A long and lean black woman reprises Josephine Baker’s signature dances.  At a table just off center, our couple from before enjoy the show and the hall exactly for what it is, and agree that it was a good choice to spend Christmas Eve here instead of a more ‘refined’ concert hall.

Further back in the place, on an upper loft where they put additional seating, Inspector Claude Beauford is sitting, none of his eyes on the show or the waitresses or even his wine.  Both eyes are on the two men he believes to be Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, sitting so close to each other they might be the same person.  He watches them, and he sometimes talks into his recorder.  But most of all, he thinks.

-

Beauford and two of his assistants had been up late studying the profiles of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.  While just catching them outright would be smart — and certainly he could, and probably succeed, knowing what he knows of them now — there is the matter of their crimes in France.  All they have for proof is a hunch and a profile.  Nothing concrete that could dispel reasonable doubt, and therein lies their biggest problem.  If he wants to charge them with their crimes here in France, Beauford knows, he must catch them in the act.

“Entry for today, December 25th, 2:07 A.M.  Inspector Claude Beauford.  So far, still nothing beyond holiday festivities.  They attended Christmas Vigil at Notre Dame, stayed late for adoration.  Lecter seemed to be keenly interested in the statues and brought Graham around to all of them.  Left Notre Dame forty minutes ago.  Still, nothing…” Beauford pauses to watch his targets warm their hands at a stand selling roasted almonds.  They buy a bag and continue on.  “…If this first gamble doesn’t pan out, I’m prepared to take the second…I only hope my back-up is where they need to be when I do…”

-

Dawn is starting to peek over the rooftops and those revelers who had been out all night are finally retiring to their homes to sleep through Christmas.  Lecter and Graham have returned to their apartment just above their café.  The first gamble has failed.  Claude Beauford loosens his tie some more and swallows a good mouthful of the bad whiskey he has, then dabs some behind his ears and on his pulse points.  The late hours have him looking like shit already, so half the job is done for him.  Now he takes up his character and staggers up to the café door and starts pounding.

There are three posts for his back up in adjacent buildings.  He tries the door and is genuinely surprised to find it unlocked.  He leans in the doorway:

“ _Bonjour, bonjour, monsieurs!  C’est le matin!  Allez, allez,_ criminals do not sleep and neither may I!”  There is no response.  No woken ‘Yves’ or ‘Beau’ to ask him of his drunkenness, or of his despair.  To attempt to disappear him in this golden opportunity and give him his chance.  The only sound is the slightest echo of Beauford’s own voice coming back to him.  The place is dark and still.  The antlers feel looming now without the light.  Beauford drops the act; he straightens his tie and speaks into his wire: “Cover me; they are either dead to the world or they are awake and know my game.”

His gun is in his hands now as he checks the place.  For all the world it looks like a dormant kitchen.  He finds the stairs that lead to the upper loft and ascends them slow, trying not to creak.  The apartment door is ajar, and when he pushes it open he’s met with an attractive space; simple elegance in the furniture and a polished harpsichord where one might have put a television.  There are delphinium flowers arranged in a neat glass bowl on the low table with a note.  With a sickly feeling welling in his gut, Claude Beauford picks up the note and reads, in it’s perfect copperplate, the single word:

“ _Adieu._ ” Signed _H.L. & W.G._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh deer.
> 
> I'd just like to say it is REALLY HARD to find footage of Josephine Baker's infamous dances. I did manage to kind of find one [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmw5eGh888Y), but even then, as is explained in the video, she was made to wear a top for the shoot. Normally, she was topless for the performance.
> 
> Tl;dr:  
> "Good day, good day, misters! It's morning! Let's go, let's go...!"


End file.
